Witchstruck

by Victoria Lamb

  ‘You are charged with the foul and unnatural practice of witchcraft, Meg Lytton,’ Marcus Dent thundered, his voice echoing through the church. Some of the local men sitting in judgement on me shifted uncomfortably on their stools and would not meet my gaze. ‘How do you plead?’

  ‘Not guilty.’

  ‘Why did you choose to turn your back on Christ and become a witch?’ he demanded, as though he had not heard my previous answer.

  ‘I am not a witch,’ I replied clearly, and thought nothing of the lie, for I knew Dent meant to see me hanged or burned if I was found guilty.

  ‘No one is fooled by these empty answers. You have been seen in company with a known witch, and often secretly closeted with her. One of your father’s own servants testified only two days ago at your aunt’s trial that he has often seen you wandering the woods with your aunt and gathering plants together.’

  ‘Is it now a crime to pick herbs?’

  He smiled coldly. ‘Tell me about when you became a witch and renounced the Holy Catholic faith.’

  ‘I have renounced nothing.’

  ‘Did your aunt, Jane Canley, initiate you into the foul sin of witchery before she was burned for heresy?’

  Marcus Dent peered at the book in his hand, then came closer. He had opened the Malleus Maleficarum and seemed for a moment to be searching for one particular page. Then he circled my stool, staring down at me with burning eyes. His questions followed rapidly on from each other while he ignored my stubborn, repeated denials.

  ‘With which demons and familiars have you been consorting?’ he demanded, reading aloud from the book. ‘Did you take any demon as your lover? What sabats did you celebrate with your witch-aunt, and where did they take place? Who are your accomplices in this evil?’ Then, violently dragging down the left shoulder of my gown to reveal the swelling of my breast, he shouted, ‘Is this not the Devil’s mark?’

  Half the men on the jury rose from their bench to peer in fascinated horror at my bared flesh. The others looked away uncomfortably. I did not need to glance at my left breast to know what was there, always hidden just out of sight by my bodice.

  It was my birthmark, about the size of a thimble. Marcus Dent had seen it that day at Lytton Park when he attacked me. Only now did I realize how deep his planning went. He must have been dreaming of this day, this trial, ever since I refused him.

  I looked up at him, my voice steady even though my heart was boiling in my chest.

  ‘I’m amazed at what you’re prepared to do for revenge when a woman refuses to marry you, Marcus Dent.’ I lowered my eyes demurely. ‘If I had known how strongly you felt, I would have said yes the first time you asked.’

  Some of the watching jury laughed behind their hands. I enjoyed his humiliation for only a few seconds though, for Marcus’s fist swept down in a vicious blow and knocked me from my stool. With my hands still bound, I was unable to save myself. My head and shoulder cracked painfully against the stone flags of the church floor.

  ‘We need no further proof of her guilt,’ Dent shouted to the assembled villagers. ‘You have all seen the Devil’s mark on her breast. You have heard the servant’s testimony that she was always in secret company with her aunt, a known Satan worshipper. I call for this girl to be hanged as a witch without further ado, and as many of her evil accomplices too as we may find over the following days.’

  The small church was in uproar. One man stood up to shout that there was no proof at all, but several of the others hushed the man and pulled him back down.

  ‘At least give her a chance to confess and die in a state of Grace!’ someone called out from behind the pillars.

  ‘No, let the witch hang unshriven,’ another insisted – a weaselly little man, his eyes gleaming on my bare shoulders. ‘Her aunt and her familiars await her in the fires of Hell. Why disappoint them?’

  ‘Wait!’ Marcus Dent exclaimed, and held up his hand for silence. When it had fallen, he prodded my fallen body with his boot. ‘I am not an unjust man, and this church is sacred to Mary Magdalene, whose sins were many but who was saved by our Lord. To hang or to burn is fit only for those witches most proven in their guilt. So let us invoke Saint Mary Magdalene to save this woman’s soul if she is innocent.’

  ‘How will we prove her guilt?’ one of the men demanded.

  ‘By one of the oldest methods in these isles, that of swimming the witch.’ Dent smiled brutally. ‘Meg Lytton will face trial by water. Bind the witch’s arms and legs, lower her into the village pond, and if she drowns she is innocent. If she survives, she will be hanged and may the Lord have mercy on her soul!’

  There was little argument this time, only a few muttered protests from those who seemed to dislike Dent’s highhanded methods more than anything else. It seemed my fate had been decided, and no tears would be shed over my dead body. I would either be drowned or hanged while the villagers looked on. Either way I would die today. The clerk scurried forward with a hefty book for Marcus Dent and the other members of this mock courtroom to sign, stating their names and the agreed verdict and sentence.

  I lay for a few moments in a stupor, trying not to imagine how it would feel to drown. Then I was lifted roughly under the arms and half dragged to the altar by a priest in a hooded black robe, whom I had seen before in the shadows, watching the proceedings from one of the side chapels.

  The priest cast me down on my knees before the crucifix and the vast statue of Mary the Virgin that stood to one side of the altar.

  ‘Child, you have been sentenced to death. But whether you reach Heaven or Hell afterwards is your choice.’ The priest stood beside me, staring down from the dark cowl of his hood. ‘Do you confess your sins freely to Christ and beg His forgiveness?’

  His voice was rough, muffled by the hood. Yet something about it made me glance up at him, catching a familiar echo . . .

  ‘Don’t look at me, you fool,’ he whispered urgently. ‘Look at the altar!’

  Obedient, my heart thundering, I turned back to stare at the lean, writhing body of Christ on the cross.

  ‘Are you mad, Alejandro?’ I demanded, also in a whisper. ‘If they catch you—’

  ‘They will not catch me,’ he said confidently.

  ‘But what are you doing here? You can’t hope to rescue me, there are too many of them.’

  ‘I admit, the numbers are not ideal. But Juan is here, waiting for us with horses on the north side of the church. Once you are outside—’

  ‘You there, priest!’

  Alejandro stopped at the shouted command and turned his head slightly. ‘It is Marcus Dent,’ he whispered cautiously, then held up his hand, raising his voice. ‘I fear this girl will go unshriven to her death. Maybe another five minutes?’

  ‘The witch already had a chance to repent her sins and did not take it. Now it is time for her to join her aunt in Hell.’

  Afraid that Alejandro would do something reckless and get himself killed, I stumbled back past the roodscreen to where Marcus was waiting and let him take me.

  Marcus Dent smiled, dragging me to the church door. Outside, I could see his men carrying planks and rope to the village pond for my execution. First though, he hissed in my ear, I had to be prepared. He pulled my bodice even further down so the gathering villagers could ogle me and the proof of my ‘Devil’s mark’. Then Marcus seized my long fair hair and sawed through it with his knife, leaving a ragged edge that reached only just below my ears.

  I suddenly remembered the vision of the future in the scrying mirror, of me on a cart bound for London with my fair hair cropped short as a boy’s, its shame hidden under a cap.

  Did that vision mean I would survive this?

  The tiny glimmer of hope in my heart was abruptly extinguished. My aunt had told me once that the scrying mirror did not always predict the future clearly. Sometimes it told a future which might come to pass if certain conditions were met. In this case, that I neither drowned nor was hanged today, but survived to return to Elizabeth’s
service. And what were the chances of that?

  ‘You won’t need to look beautiful where you’re going,’ Marcus whispered. I felt his breath on my bare neck and shuddered. ‘It’s a shame, Meg. But you should have agreed to marry me when you had the chance. You thought I was helpless in the face of your refusal, that I could do nothing. Now do you see how powerful I am?’

  Powerful? I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to hurt all of them, these vile cowards who felt such a need to crush what they could not understand. But if I raised my eyes to his face now, if I spoke a single word of power, I knew Alejandro would not be able to stop himself from taking advantage of the moment and attempting to rescue me. Then they would catch Alejandro and kill him too.

  If I was to die today, I was determined to do it alone.

  ‘I shall tell them to bring your brother Will out from his prison to watch your execution,’ Marcus Dent added, and turned me round so he could smile down into my face. ‘For it will be his turn next. Your brother attacked my men when they were doing their holy duty by burning a proven witch and heretic, and his punishment is death. You can show him how to die.’

  I gritted my teeth and resisted the urge to bring my knee sharply up into his groin.

  Marcus would only make my death more painful and torturous if I annoyed him. And that might tempt Alejandro de Castillo to act like a hero instead of doing what I wanted him to, and running away.

  TWENTY

  Blown Away

  DENT’S MEN PUSHED and prodded me down to the village pond, a deep stretch of water straddled by an ancient willow. There, they jeered at me, stripping off my gown until I stood all but naked in my underclothes. My face burning with anger, I tried not to listen to their whistles and impertinent comments.

  Someone came running with some spare lengths of rope. The owner came after him a moment later, demanding their return immediately following my death, and was promised he would not have to wait long. One of the men ordered me to touch my toes, then clumsily bound my wrists to my ankles so that I was bent double in my flimsy undershift. Then a rope was passed twice about my waist, pinching my skin cruelly.

  Several men in sombre black suits came to inspect how well I was secured, their faces full of contempt.

  ‘How do you like your punishment, witch?’ one of them asked, checking that the ropes were tight.

  Not very much, I felt like replying, but did not wish to draw this out any longer. My shoulders and hamstrings ached desperately and my back was in torment. Drowning would at least stop the pain.

  During all this meticulous knotting and checking of my bonds, Marcus Dent stood on a table at the edge of the pond, higher than everyone else and making the most of his moment of triumph. He called lengthily on Saint Mary Magdalene to guide them, and preached to the crowd until I wondered if he would have been happier as a priest than a witchfinder.

  Suddenly there was some commotion, and I saw Dent turn his head. His eyes were no longer fixed on me but on the narrow, grassy road that led to Woodstock.

  Straining to turn my head, I caught sight of my brother, his hands manacled, his face very pale and dirty, walking between two of Dent’s men.

  ‘Ah, young Will Lytton!’ Marcus Dent exclaimed, his triumphant smile broadening. ‘Bring the boy here. He has come just in time to witness his sister’s death.’

  Two men took up the ropes and walked me out into the duckweed-infested water. Then there was a hard tug on the rope, and I tumbled over into the pond – not surprisingly, given that my wrists were bound to my ankles. Two of the men lifted me into position in the deepest part of the water, which was when I suddenly saw a hooded figure fleeing across the village square.

  Alejandro!

  So Alejandro had finally taken my advice and was on his way back to the relative safety of Woodstock Palace before he too could be seized by the vengeful Marcus Dent and his men.

  My mind stuck hard on the thought of being parted from Alejandro. It was like a bone wedged in my throat, stopping me from breathing. But not from thinking. Anger filled me. All this was because I had refused to marry Marcus Dent. He had never felt anything for me, of that I was sure. But perhaps he had sensed my power and decided to control it by marrying me, by making me one of his possessions, like the cruel book of hatred to which he clung so fervently. What a worthless man Dent was, obsessed with his own lack of power, forever trying to frighten people into obeying him.

  ‘Do you think it ends here?’ I flung at Marcus Dent. ‘That I can be so easily removed from this world?’

  I noted with satisfaction how Dent’s face paled and his pious speech died away. ‘Put her in!’ he demanded instead. ‘Dunk the girl. Let’s see if she floats.’

  The men began to lower me in a sitting position, still bound hand and foot, into the chill dark water. The greenish scum on the surface parted to admit my limbs. I shivered, seeing my own helpless reflection in the water, and threw back my head as far as the ropes would allow me so I could still see Marcus’s face.

  ‘This is what you wanted all along, isn’t it?’ I shouted defiantly as the water began to cover me. ‘To see me die just because you didn’t get your way. But I shall come back, Marcus Dent, and have my revenge. My spirit will haunt you night and day until you run mad and your own men turn against you.’

  Dent’s eyes narrowed at that. ‘Shut the witch up!’

  At his furious command, one of the men shoved my head under the water. I shut my mouth tight and held my breath. It was dark and chilly beneath the surface. No wonder pike were such silent, mournful-looking creatures, I thought.

  I struggled against the desire to breathe, flailing and churning up the mud and weed.

  This was so cruel and unfair.

  I had felt childishly secure in my gift, able to twist any man to my will. Yet I had not been able to influence Elizabeth, nor Alejandro, nor even Marcus Dent when it mattered.

  It was time to stop pretending and face the truth. I possessed no special power at all. My ‘magick’ had been nothing but the tricks of a village witch, and now I would die for my arrogance.

  If she sink, she be no witch and shall be drowned.

  If she float, she be a witch and must be hanged.

  Would this be considered sinking? Yes, I thought simply. I am no witch and I am sinking. Let them drown me and prove me innocent.

  Slumped in my bonds, I opened my mouth wide and breathed the dark greenish water. It burned and seared my throat like a flame and I enjoyed the agony of its caresses. It would be the last sensation I ever felt, so I clung onto it lovingly. Pain, pain, pain. Sweet, mortal pain.

  ‘Meg!’

  The voice tugged at me, like a bird tugging at a worm.

  ‘Meg, don’t leave me!’

  Damn it.

  It was my brother’s voice. Will was in trouble and he needed me.

  His voice came again, waking me from my nightmare of dying. My heart was bursting and I was no longer content to perish at the hands of these ignorant men. The pain in my lungs was not beautiful; it was cruel and intolerable. I had to get out of the water. I had to breathe again, to survive this torture.

  My mind spun these thoughts, then my eyelids shivered open on the dark underbelly of the pond.

  Through the rippling water, faces seemed to swim against the light: Dent’s, contorted with triumph; the pale-faced men who were holding me down, talking to each other over my submerged head; a crowd of villagers, gathered about the water’s edge to watch me drown.

  I remembered my aunt’s death, her pleading eyes across the smoke of the bonfire.

  Help me, Aunt Jane. I could not help you, but is there any way I can help myself?

  The words came to me suddenly, clear and sharp as the sound of a bell. Had her unquiet spirit put the spell into my mind or had I seen the words in one of her books? I did not consider the question long, but thrust my head up above the water as hard as I could, dislodging the hands that held me.

  As soon as my mouth broke water, I crie
d aloud in Latin, ‘Lift me, Dark Mother! Free me from my bonds, O Queen of the Night!’

  The men fell back in horrified surprise, staring down at me as though I had grown two heads.

  A sudden panic in his voice, Dent shouted, ‘Push the witch back in! Hurry, before she curses us all!’

  But I was too quick for him. Before the men could recover their wits, I intoned the Latin charm three times in a voice of power.

  I began to rise from the village pond, my legs dripping and covered in green weed. Slowly and majestically, the sodden rope unravelled itself from me and fell back into the water. I straightened my aching back and stretched out my hands towards the villagers, continuing my spell of protection.

  I was free, and the pond was several feet beneath me as I rested on the air, floating on nothing.

  ‘Let the waters rise,’ I said clearly, ‘and the winds blow the evildoers from this place. Lady of Darkness, I beg protection for your faithful servant.’

  Marcus Dent had climbed down from his table and was glaring at me, his face red with fury.

  ‘Bow to your fate, witch,’ he commanded me coldly, ‘and cease this demonic prattle.’ He gestured angrily at the men guarding me. ‘Don’t just stand there, you fools. Pull the witch down from there. Gag her to stop her spells.’ When they did not move, Marcus Dent looked about the crowd of staring villagers and raised his voice. ‘Pay no mind to these tricks and illusions. They are nothing that need concern good Christian men like ourselves.’

  ‘But the witch . . . she’s floating in mid-air! This be no illusion, Master Dent,’ the younger man stammered, then turned and fled.

  At his heels the wind I had called began to rise. Dusty and inexorable, it whipped at the aprons and skirts of the housewives, and blew the men’s caps away. Below me, the water had begun to circle in a whirlpool; now it rose from the pond until it floated in a wobbling line just below my feet, a muddy, wet, impossible floor on which I set my bare toes and laughed.